


John Watson

by TheBasilRathbone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1800s, 19th Century, Alternate Universe, Angst, Class Differences, Happy Ending, Jane Eyre!AU, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining!John, Pining!Sherlock, historical!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBasilRathbone/pseuds/TheBasilRathbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing particularly remarkable about John Hamish Watson. Average height, average build, common hair and eye colour. But John's new employer finds him quite extraordinary, and John can't help but return the sentiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. It was not just the rolling clouds and thunderclaps that shook the school house on its foundation, either, though that certainly was enough to turn any man away from wandering out of doors. Frankly, he was glad for the excuse of foul weather to allow him to stay in, as he woke that morning to a terrible throbbing in his bad leg that made any movement without the support of his cane impossible. To be startled into consciousness, as well, on several occasions in the night due to vivid nightmares made the ritualistic trek along the muddy path an even less tempting task.

The nightmares he was used to. Since he had left his childhood home to be sent away to a boys’ military school at the age of ten, he had been plagued by the memories of his earliest years. The cane was a new addition to his person, and it brought with it a new portfolio of horrific dreams of war.

John Watson, soon after his birth, was left an orphan, and was quickly placed under the care of his father’s brother and his wife. What little John remembered of his uncle was fondness, though that guardian, too, succumbed to illness, and John Watson was left solely in the care of his aunt, with the strict instruction that she was to care for him as she did her own daughter.

It was unclear to John, for those first ten years, if Mrs. Watson’s favouritism of her daughter Harriett led to John’s neglect, or if her hatred of John led to the spoiling of her daughter. Either way, John grew up in solitude if he was lucky, and as a target for Harriett’s bullying if he was less fortunate. He was less fortunate more often than not.

His most frequently occurring nightmare was of an incident that had arisen just before his tenth birthday, when Harriett had caught him reading one of her science books. Harriett hated science, and yet the screech she had made upon discovering her younger cousin curled up with her textbook was how the nightmares always began.

_“That is mine. You did not ask me if you could read it.”_

_“You don’t even like to read, Harry,” John had argued, small fingers running pointedly over the spine of the book, though younger and smaller, he could not stop Harriett from snatching the book out of his hands. “You pretend to be sick every time you have a lesson! The governess isn’t stupid.”_

_“Shut up! And you have to call me ‘Miss Harriett.’ You are poor and an orphan. Mummy says that you’re just going to go and work in a dirty factory somewhere. You won’t ever need to read, anyhow. Mummy says you’re a ‘bastard child’ and that you’re going to hell because you don’t behave.”_

_“I’ll tell Aunt Watson that you steal pennies from her coin-purse, and you’ll go to hell, too!”_

_The hard spine of the book colliding with his temple still made John’s head ring, even in his adult dreams. A large volume as it was, John was swept off of his feet by the force of the blow, scraping his knees as he fell. Blood and tears streaming down his face, John attacked, pulling Harry down to the carpet by her hair as she shrieked._

_That’s how the governess found the two of them, Harriett pinned beneath John’s knees, fists beating at him as he swung. The servants hauled him up and away as Harry was tended to._

_“John!” the governess had squawked, hands like talons as they dug into his shoulders. “Devil-child, attackin’ th’ mistress tha’ way. Mrs. Watson won’t be pleased.”_

_John was sure that his blood had never boiled so much as it did in that moment. “It was Harriett!” he had wailed. “Sh…sh…she threw h…her b…book at me! No, it isn’t f…fair!” No attention to the boy’s sobbing and bleeding wound, John was dragged down the stairs to his aunt’s library to receive his punishment, struggling and kicking as he went._

As though to spite him, the rain slowed greatly by the late morning, leaving John no excuse as to why he could not take his daily walk, as recommended by his doctor. If his time at his aunt’s house and in the military had taught him anything, it was the obedience of a superior. Rising from the small bed, John dressed as he did every morning. Loose shirt, patched trousers, then ill-fitting waistcoat, followed by hat and wool jacket to guard against the chill.

The stairs took some time, but he eventually managed to make his way onto the packed grass of the school grounds and across the lawn, cane sinking into the moist earth as he walked.

His aunt’s punishment had not rendered him lame, but in his mind, the two separate incidents caused the same degree of anguish. His childish mind, no doubt, had exaggerated his encounter with his aunt, but even now John still empathized with the terror of his younger self.

_“Thirty minutes in the Black Room,” Mrs. Watson had sentenced, turning her back against the young John, who fell to his knees and pleaded with her to have mercy. His begging fell on deaf ears._

_Harriett had told him many terrible stories about the Black Room. The dark wallpaper which earned the Black Room its name was innocent enough in the daytime, if one did not know the history, or had not met Harriett Watson. Mr. Watson, John’s uncle, had died in the Black Room, which was enough to have it shut up and unused for most of the time. If that was not enough to evoke his childhood suspicions, Harriett had told him that the room was cursed, and that if left alone for too long, the ghosts in the chamber would emerge from the walls and, without hesitation, thrust a dagger into his heart._

_John, having been repeatedly been told so by his aunt, knew that if he were to die, he would be sent to the place where all disobedient and evil boys went. It wasn’t that John took pleasure from disobedience, it’s that he got bored of being trapped in the house like a caged animal, as any little boy would. He didn’t want to die, but there was something intoxicating about the danger of escaping it. Perhaps because it had been instilled in him for so very long, but the rush of leaning a bit too far out of the upper floor window or running full-speed down the stairs without slipping (or lingering in the doorway in front of the Black Room) was thrilling. And also got him into trouble._

_However, there was no escaping death in the Black Room, according to Harriett, and so John was frantic as the governess dragged him through the threshold and sat him on a chair in the centre of the carpet._

_“Thirty minutes, Mr. Watson,” she had warned him. With a stern look, she was gone, the click of the lock signalling her departure._

_At almost ten years old, John what was going to happen to him once the ghosts came to collect him. He didn’t want to go where all of the horrible murderers and thieves went when they died. He was frightened, and just a little boy. Surely he would not be subjected to the same fate for striking his cousin in retaliation. That wasn’t fair._

_Every creak of the old house had him cowering, and it was only when the crack of thunder shook the house that John had panicked. He flew from the chair and fell to his knees in front of the door, screaming and sobbing and pleading for someone to save him, that he was truly very sorry and that he would never touch another one of Harriett’s books so long as he lived if he was rescued from the place. ‘Please, God,’ he had begged. ‘Let me live.’_

_As though granted, the heavy door opened, and John surged straight into the arms of his rattled governess, clutching the fabric of her apron in his small fists and burying his face into her shoulder._

_“I told you to leave him in the room for thirty minutes!” came the shrill voice of his aunt behind him._

_“He was screamin’ and cryin’, Ma’am,” the governess protested, patting John on the back as he hiccoughed and swallowed his sobs, breathing in her familiar scent as much as he was able as his nose ran from his crying._

_“John is a deceitful little boy, and a liar,” Mrs. Watson accused, grabbing the fabric of John’s shirt in her hand and tugging him backwards. “You’ll spend an hour in the room, now, John, for your deceit.”_

_And with that, John is dragged back into the darkness and deposited onto the carpet, the door slamming shut behind him._

John made his way around the side of the stone school house, leg already protesting the short distance. He followed the path to the front of the building, chin tucked to his chest. Not that there was much view to appreciate. The boys’ school he had come to work at was as plain a building as was possible, and was situated on an equally unremarkable plot of land some ten miles away from any other establishment of significance. Quiet. Peaceful. As far away from the Afghan War as John could manage. By all means, it should have soothed his restless spirits and terrible nightmares. But John found that his mind lingered more than ever with nothing to occupy him. Though he had failed to react any worse to his new environment, nothing had improved since his arrival here.

Being Sunday, the boys and most of the other staff had long since set out for the small stone church at the end of the muddy path. John would no doubt be questioned about his absence, but he was hardly bothered. This was one of the very few times when the grounds were quiet and still, and he could be left to his undisturbed solitude.

“Watson?” A figure, slouched on one of the door wooden benches outside the school house, had escaped John’s notice, and it was a short moment of hesitation before John realized that he had been seen, and could not slip away unnoticed.

Mike Stamford, an extension of the school’s director and treasurer, Mr. Bart. John was certain that the man did not so much as piss without permission from his superior, but he was kind and friendly if not too a fault, though there were worse traits to have.

“Mr. Stamford, hello,” he greeted, shifting the cane so he could shake hands. Stamford is forced to close his pocketbook to extend the greeting, thick fingers taking two tries to close the clasp on the book.

“You’re having trouble with the injury again, I see,” the older man observed, immediately setting John’s teeth on edge. “Hard to avoid. I have a bad knee from my school years that goes stiff in this muggy weather.”

Despite not wanting company, John did not protest as Stamford joins him on his slow stroll around the school house. Most of the time was filled with idle chatter, more Stamford than John, though some moments left an amicable silence between them that allowed for John’s mind to wander.

“I heard Murray left his post last week,” Stamford offered in way of conversation. “Been teaching for twenty-four years, then just up and leaves.”

“Lucky bastard,” John replied, only half-joking. He was a fairly young man, and certainly hadn’t been at the school for twenty-four years, but he imagined that if he was still working in the same dreary job two decades from now, he would be driven mad enough to quit the place forever.

Stamford peered over at him, pushing the eyeglasses further up his nose. “Are you looking for another position?”

“What would I do?” John asked dryly. “Move to London, work in a factory? At least here my own education is of some use. Besides, what employer would hire a labourer with a bad leg and shaking hands?” John had many times considered leaving the school and seeking employment elsewhere, but to do so would be giving up a secure position for something with much less pay and less comfort and security that his cramped bedroom here provided. At least his mind was occupied in this position, for however short the number of hours.

“Surely you’re over-qualified for your job at present. There must be other opportunities for you elsewhere besides factory work,” Stamford wheezed, John’s injured pace even too much for his weighty frame.

“I suppose I could advertise. Perhaps as a tutor to a child living at home.” Though not a particularly enthralling career in and of itself, but the very idea of venturing off of the dull school grounds and into the unknown was more exciting than the whole of his monotonous job. “But what sort of employer would consider accepting a man of my circumstance to tutor their child?”

To his great surprise, Stamford chuckled in response. “You know, I had a man just a fortnight ago express to me that he would never find an educator that would accept employment from a man of his circumstance.”

“Oh?” John asked, ribs suddenly feeling too snug around his thrumming heart. “Who was the man?”

* * *

 

Two weeks after Mike Stamford had departed the school for his office in London, a coach arrived to take John to his new position, and consequently, his new life. The risk was immense, to accept the employment of a total stranger, but the long journey and the uncertain situation upon his arrival was enough to liven his mundane existence more than in any recent memory. Having packed his meager belongings, John Watson boarded the carriage with nothing but a single trunk of possessions and a small scrap of paper with the address of his new residence and the name of his employer.

_Sherlock Holmes._


	2. A Meeting

The carriage ride to Holmes' residence was reminiscent of the long journey John had taken to the military academy all those years ago. While he had slept most of the way to the school as a boy, John found that he was now unable to rest. Throughout the entirety of the night, dark hills continued to roll by his window, indistinguishable from the landscape of the previous hour, and the hour before that. 

It was only at the break of dawn that the estate comes into view over the moors, crouched unassumingly between the rolling terrain. As the carriage drew closer, however, John became increasingly aware of the sheer size of the building. It looked like a castle fit for nobility, with high stone walls lined with crenels and a jutting tower that seemed to shrink the surrounding land with its size. The only trees that seemed to be able to grow here all clustered close around the foundation, though John could not decide if the building was protecting the trees or if the trees lined the path like guards, dwarfed by the magnitude of the residence. 

Once the carriage rolled to a stop, John carefully emerged, legs sore and numb from the long journey. His meager belongings were quick to gather, and soon John was limping towards what he assumed to be the entryway. The figure of an elderly woman appeared through the stone columns, wrapped in a thick wool shawl, and she curtsied at his presence. John didn't think he'd ever been curtsied to, and so he clumsily returned the greeting with a stiff nod of respect. 

"Hello. John Watson, I believe I am expected, I applied for the position of tutor to a young boy."

"Mrs. Hudson!" the elderly woman chirped, bustling away at such a pace that John struggled to keep up. Instead of the grand iron entryway, John was taken through a small wooden door that led him straight into the kitchen, where he's urged by Mrs. Hudson to take a seat by the fire to keep warm. 

"I was just about to begin breakfast," Mrs. Hudson informed him. "You must be starving after your long travels. Archie will be up late as usual, I'm certain, so you have a few hours of peace before chaos begins."

"Archie?" John asked, feeling very much as though the chaos has already begun.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes' ward, the young man you'll be teaching. He's not a poorly behaved child, but he certainly is...energetic. He has so many questions about everything, I do hope you'll have more luck answering them than I do."

"I certainly will try," John chuckled, holding his frigid hands up to the flames.

After breakfast is placed into the stove, Mrs. Hudson insisted on showing him to his rooms, not seeming to notice as John struggled with juggling the cane and his small trunk. The corridors are a complex labyrinth, and after passing an endless series of dark, moody paintings and stone staircases, they stopped in front of a nondescript door. He would certainly have a hell of a time attempting to find it amongst the great many rooms.

The room itself is small but comfortable, a small fireplace promising to keep out the chill and a four-poster bed with carved wood supports that was finer than anything John had slept on. The fire is lit and the bed made-up, evidently waiting for his arrival. A dark wooden wardrobe is pushed into the corner, fitted with more drawers than John would ever need to use. While foreign, it's pleasant, and most importantly it's nothing like the drafty attic to which John had grown accustomed. 

 "Where is Mr. Holmes?" John asked suddenly, heaving his trunk on the end of the bed. "I should like to meet him as soon as possible."

"Oh, he's travelling about. Disappears for months at a time. Mr. Holmes gets terribly restless in this big old house, he bores easily. He often shuts the place up and goes off. Never quite know when he'll be back. Could be months, yet."

The information is disheartening, though John certainly understood what it meant to be restless. "What is he like, Mr. Holmes? Is he agreeable?"

"Oh, yes. Some don't find him so, he can be quite cold. But he cares more than he'd like you to believe. He isn't an easy man to live with, so I suppose it's just as well he's a bachelor. But he isn't around terribly much, so you shouldn't be too interrupted by his presence here," Mrs. Hudson informed him, making her way across the small room to tend to the fire. 

It wasn't exactly a detailed answer to his inquiry, but Mrs. Hudson's mind seem to flit about as much as she did, and John determined he wasn't likely to get any more from her. 

* * *

When John is finished unpacking his trunk, he made his way through the winding corridors, managing to find his way back to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was just beginning to set out breakfast. A young boy sat near the wood stove, Archie, John presumed, and was rubbing his eyes as though he'd just been woken. He had a head of dark, unruly curls that appeared to have been abandoned by Mrs. Hudson and just left to grow. 

"Hello," John greeted, tapping his cane softly on the ground. "You must be Archie. My name is John Watson, I'm to be your tutor for the foreseeable future."

The boy is immediately aroused, and jumped up from his chair at the fire, nearly knocking it onto its back. "Hello!" he greeted loudly, bending in a childish mockery of a formal bow. "I'm Archie! I hope you're more exciting than my last tutor. He was very boring. Mr. Holmes even said so. But Mr. Holmes said that he was stealing silverware, and so he went away. I wasn't sad."

While John is left in shock at the flurry of new information, Archie has run around the wooden counter, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's scolding. 

"Will you be boring, John?" Archie asked innocently, nicking a scone from a plate near the edge of the table, the only dish he could reach. 

"I'll try my very best not to be."

Archie sighed loudly. "That means 'yes,'" he mourned, words muffled around the scone. Despite his small statue, Archie managed to finish off the scone in record time, wiping the crumbs from his mouth off with the back of his hand. "Oh! John, do you want to see my experiment? Mr. Holmes brought me home a chemistry set last time he came back!"

With lightening speed, Archie was off, nearly knocking John back with the force of his sprinted exit. Perhaps this 'tutor' job would not be quite as easy and calm as he'd once thought. 

* * *

The next few days carry on much the same, and before John knew it, a month had passed since his arrival. On most days, he'd come down for breakfast and wait until Mrs. Hudson could manage to rouse Archie from bed. Then, the two would retire to the nursery and work on Archie's studies. Then lunch, more studies, and dinner. Then the day would repeat again. Sundays were the only break from the cycle, when Mrs. Hudson would dress Archie and walk him down the path to the small chapel in the nearest town, and John would stay behind, taking a stroll around the small cluster of gnarled trees behind the house.

It wasn't a boring position, per se, as Archie was a never-ending whirlwind of enthusiasm, but it failed to stop John's mind from wandering or his gaze from shifting to the view outside the window. With the chill of the stone walls, John found that his leg stiffened on colder days, though he suspected that there has been some improvement since his departure from the military school. 

On one particular Sunday, more than a month since he had been residing under Mr. Holmes' roof, John forced himself outside despite the low-hanging fog and gray skies. The ground is soft and muddy from the night of rainfall before, and every few steps John was forced to stop and tug the end of the cane from the earth. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be pleased with him trailing mud through the house, and would no doubt be scolded (John being scolded was, perhaps, one of Archie's favourite things, coming only after his science experiments. 

When the path grows so treacherous that John cannot continue, he's forced to turn back, gripping tightly to his cane to keep himself from slipping. The wind howled around him, making the journey back seem increasingly exhausting. Yet, from the thicket of the trees came an unusual sound, and after some straining to listen, John thought he heard the sound of a dog barking. 

There were no dogs, no /houses/ for miles in any direction, at least none that John was aware of. For even a stray to wander this far was entirely unlikely. If a dog was present, it would be accompanying someone. Someone who was approaching the residence from the heavily wooded rear. Certainly not a visitor then. At least not a wanted one. On-edge, John went straight for the pistol tucked into his jacket, heart pounding. 

A flood of memories of war come flooding back, and John steadied the gun with a second hand on the bottom, though it was hardly necessary. Creeping through the trees, John followed the sound of the barking dog as much as he was able as the wind whistled around the trees. Despite the noise, John was startled by the resounding sound of a loud crash and the shriek of a panicked horse, a cacophony with the ceaseless barking of a dog. Running now, John emerged from the trees, gun bared. The sight that greeted him, however, was more ridiculous than threatening. 

A dog, indeed, is present, and accompanied by a stranger as he'd suspected. However, the stranger seemed to be no immediate threat, lying on the ground in the mud as he was. His long black coat was spread out beneath him like matted wings, what John presumed was dark hair caked with mud. An equally mud-laden dog bounded around both him and a stallion also painted with dirt which grazed on a small patch of nearby grass. With a rumbling groan, the stranger seemed to sense his presence, and turned over in the mud, eyes making contact with John. Or rather, the barrel of John's pistol.

"If you're planning on robbing me, I would like to inform you that I have little on my person in the way of valuables. But if you must, take my bag."

The deep voice startled him from his frozen state, and John quickly pocketed the pistol and rushed over to the muddied man on the ground.

"Did your horse slip in the mud?" John asked, falling to his knees beside the stranger. "Are you injured?"

"Obviously," the man snapped, pulling himself to sit. It wasn't an easy task, sunken into the mud as he was. "I'm fine, I've just injured my damn ankle. More importantly, who the hell are you?"

John ignored the stranger's gruff tone, moving down to inspect the ankle in question. "Just a mild sprain," John promised. The forest so near, John barely had to move three feet before finding a suitable branch, which he snapped to a more suitable size. Unwinding his scarf, John knelt again to bind the man's ankle. 

"Oh, never mind," the stranger huffed, staring at him in such a way that John was sure he could see straight through him, like John was no more than an apparition. "You're a teacher, aren't you? Former military man, injured in the war and sent home, returning to your former educational institution, only this time as a teacher. Oh, shut up, Redbeard!" It was the dog, now, in question, though it hardly seemed to bother the canine, who continued to bark.  

"How could you possibly know such a thing?" John stuttered, amazed. "Have we met before, Sir?"

"Certainly not!" the stranger snapped again, using John's shoulder to pull himself to his feet. "Everything about you screams 'military man.' Posture. Haircut. Not to mention the military-grade gun you were brandishing about a few minutes ago. And yet you're not tanned like most soldiers. But you hold your shoulder stiffly. You've been injured. So you  _have_ been away, but you've been back for some time."

"Extraordinary!" John declared. "But how on earth did you know I was a teacher?"

Though still looking much put-out, the stranger seemed to soften in light of the praise. "The way you're dressed would have been enough. But it was the label on your scarf. I saw it as you wrapped my ankle. 'Bart's Academy for Military Training.' I've never heard of it. Some small academy, then. But how would you even hear of a position in some far-off, unimportant school? Likely you attended it yourself before the war."

"Brilliant!"

"Do you know you say that out loud?"

John immediately blushed. It was against his schooling years to be so flattering and immodest with his compliments, but the observation was truly astounding, and John found he was barely conscious of the words that fell from his mouth. "My apologies."

"No. It isn't often I get that response."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

The crude language caught John off guard, and he immediately began to laugh, though perhaps it was altogether more at the frankly absurd circumstances to which the two men found themselves in. 

"Help me back onto my horse, would you?"

John allowed the stranger to lean heavily into him as they shuffle towards the animal, John catching the reigns with his free hand to hold the horse steady. It took a couple of tries, but the other man managed to swing his injured leg over the horse's back and mount, settling onto the saddle. 

"Do you typically come out into the woods to threaten passerbys with guns?" the stranger asked, calling out over the wind. "Where on earth do you teach out here, anyway?"

"I was on a walk and heard your dog," John shouted back. "I thought perhaps you might be out to cause harm to my residence. I am under the employment of a Mr. Holmes, and have been for a month. He owns this property."

The stranger didn't seem to be bothered by the announcement of his trespassing, instead asking, "Only a month? Do you often risk your life against bandits who threaten the place of your short employment?"

"The length of time means nothing, if I am to protect my charge and the residence of my employer," John replied firmly. The stranger regarded once again with his piercing gaze, and with one final nod, kicked his horse forward, the muddy dog close on their heels. 

"Wait!" John called. "I don't even know who you are!"

But whether it's the howling wind or simply a lack of desire to confront him any longer, the man doesn't turn around. Left alone in the empty clearing, John realized that he was now even further from the house than when he'd set off, and he'd have to trudge a long ways through the wind and mud to reach home. Head reeling from the encounter, John set off, eager for a warm fire and a hot dinner from Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

 

As predicted, Mrs. Hudson is not pleased at the sight of John in the entryway to the kitchen. And in the light of the kitchen, it's no wonder why. His legs below the knees were totally caked in mud, and his entire right side as well from where the strange man in the trees had used him as a crutch. Archie sat at the fire, evidently having changed his trousers, his small shoes already having been scrubbed clean and hung by the laces on the mantle. He muffled giggles behind his hand as John is chastised, beyond pleased. 

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted, before he can trudge away to change into clean clothing. "As soon as you're dressed and fed, Mr. Holmes has asked for your presence in the drawing room."

"Mr. Holmes?" John asked in surprise, sinking feeling in his gut. It  _couldn't_ be. "Mr. Holmes has returned?"

"Yes! Just thirty minutes before you stepped in the door, as a matter of fact. He'd like to meet you."

John nodded mechanically, the whirlwind of the day threatening to only grow increasingly strange. "I'll join him immediately after dinner," he assured, paused in the doorway. "Anything else, Mrs. Hudson."

"No, no, that's all. Oh! John, where has your cane gone?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very long time since I've written, so I'm attempting to develop some sort of style. Constructive criticism is always welcome, even the smallest of details. I'll likely go back and edit these anyways, so I'd love to hear what someone thinks. Thank you.


	3. An Inquiry

It takes John some time to clean the mud off of his clothing and prepare for dinner, readying Archie as well, who protests the entire length of his dressing experience, eager to squirm free the moment his rain-soaked clothing is replaced. The boy runs wild down the hall, his step echoing loudly through the house as he tramples down the staircase towards the dining room. 

John puts on his finer set of clothing, though perhaps less-worn would be a better description than 'fine,' preparing for dinner with his mysterious employer. But as he and Archie settle at the table and the meal commences, it becomes increasingly clear that Mr. Holmes will not be joining them. It is only after Archie has finished inhaling his dessert that Mrs. Hudson enters, informing them both that Mr. Holmes has called them into the sitting room for tea. 

Archie seems more eager than John, leaping from his chair and racing down a narrow, walled staircase, further and further down into the darkness. John can only follow, the ease of movement in his miraculously-healed leg a welcome but unexpected change. 

The sitting room is much less grand than the rest of the estate. Its low ceilings and the lone fireplace providing the only source of light gave the room a distinct cave-like feel. The stark stone floors are piled with Persian rugs and odd paintings are hung on the walls. The flames cast long shadows throughout the room, the narrow walls made even narrower by the bookshelves that line the perimeter. John has never seen so many books in his life. The school's library had been barren compared to this, though it mostly contained Bibles and Latin texts, anyways, which held little interest to John, though he would never admit that to the rest of the staff, lest he lose his employment. 

With the almost-Bohemian nature of the sitting room, John notices Mr. Holmes last. He sits slouched in an armchair by the fire, wrapped ankle propped up on an ottoman whose upholstery clashes horribly with that of the armchair. The dog is relatively uninterested by Archie barreling into the room, but labours to its feet at the sight of John, growling. 

"Redbeard," Mr. Holmes barks, setting down what appears to be a glass of brandy and snapping his fingers at the dog. 

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!" Archie runs to the man's armchair and rocks back and forth on his feet, unable to stand still. "Did you bring me something?"

"Manners, Archie," John scolds automatically, remembering his place as employee and not mere witness to the room. 

Mr. Holmes holds up his hand, before reaching out to tap an envelope on the small side table near his chair. "He's as bad at it as I am. I brought you some sketches and photographs, but keep them out of Mrs. Hudson's eye, mind. She will remove them from you."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes!" Archie snatches the envelope up and pats the dog a bit roughly on the head before running to an overstuffed sofa in the corner. Despite its mistreatment, the dog lumbers after the boy, lapping as his hands as he sits. 

"Be seated," Mr. Holmes commands, and says no more, and so John is forced to choose his own seat, settling into an armchair across from his master. "You are no longer limping," Holmes observes, gesturing to his leg. 

"Indeed, I am not," John replies, rubbing his thigh, as though the phantom pain might return. "It's extraordinary. Quite extraordinary. I assure you, it was not fraud. I've never put it on to gain sympathy. In fact, my employ-ability is likely harmed by having it."

"Your leg has not healed by some miracle of God, if that is what you are about to suggest," Mr. Holmes says gruffly, tossing his book aside as though it was a pamphlet handed to him on a street corner and not a leather-bound and gold-gilded edition. 

John very nearly laughs at the annoyed expression on his face. "No, a remainder of the trauma of the war. As you so keenly observed, I was a soldier. Why it occurred in the rain and the mud, I cannot say. I suppose my doctor's instincts kicked in, I was more concerned with your ankle than I was my own injury."

"I should believe it, if I saw you forgot your limp. By the time I saw you, you were pointing your pistol at me and ready to fire, no limp in sight."

John blinks, unsure of what to say. He glances over at Archie, who has abandoned his new photographs and is on the floor on his belly, wrestling with the dog. "I know not what is in those photographs, Mr. Holmes, but I should warn you about their contents. A boy his age is impressionable, and while I have no intentions of coddling the boy, I don't-"

"If you are suggesting," Mr. Holmes says, something of a smile curling the corners of his lips for the first time this evening, "that I have acquired lewd photographs and gifted them to my young charge, you are sorely mistaken. I am a man of science, and Archie has a tendency towards my own...macabre fascinations. They're sketches and photographs of dissections I was able to attend, he is interested in anatomy. However, if you were hoping to confiscate lewd photographs from my young charge to gain for your own possession, I should warn you there is a lack of such things in the house-"

"Of course not!"

"-but I could give you an advance on your wages and send Mrs. Hudson on the hunt for some next time she goes to town." Mr. Holmes is nearly smirking now, and John refuses to blush but his crude language. 

"That was not at all my intention, Mr. Holmes, and I am not on the hunt for such...paraphernalia," he fires back, leaning back in his chair, pleased at himself to match Mr. Holmes. "As you are certainly well aware. Now, is there anything relevant to my employment that you would like to discuss?"

Mr. Holmes sniffs. "So you were a teacher. A former soldier and doctor, as I have observed, but most recently in education. And left to become a tutor. Why? Any scandal attached to your name?"

"No, I assure you," John insists. "I was restless. I needed a change of scenery. Not to make myself seem unreliable, I am content here, but I felt...trapped. In layman's terms, I suppose I was...bored."

Something in Mr. Holmes' expression softens quite unexpectedly, and he straightens in his chair. "And beyond shooting guns and suturing wounds, what did you learn during your education?"

"Enough to be a tutor, I believe. Arithmetic, reading, writing. If Archie is interested in anatomy, as a doctor, I am more than competent."

"What else? Music? Can you play?"

John becomes sheepish. "Only the clarinet, and very poorly."

That seems to amuse Mr. Holmes, and John follows his gaze to a polished but evidently well-used violin. "And what do you do, then? In your time off? There must be summer vacation in that school of yours."

For the first time since their acquaintance, John struggles to answer. "I...don't have much in the way of hobbies. I walk often, and far. I read."

This answer seems to do little to please Holmes. "Friends? Family?"

"Little in the way of both," he admits. "I had friends, I suppose, in the army and in the city. But those that survived drifted away once I moved to the countryside to calm my nerves. And family...my mother and father died while I was very young."

"Consumption?" Mr. Holmes asks. 

"My mother," he nods, having little intention of being coy. "My father drank himself to death. I was raised by my uncle, though he died not long after, and then my aunt. She and my cousin Harriett still live Gateshead. I was sent to boarding school at the age of ten, and there I remained until the military."

Mr. Holmes' eyes drift downwards to John's hands, that still bear the scars of too vigorous a striking in his youth. The gaze feels somehow too intimate, as though Mr. Holmes had reached out to stroke his skin, and John pulls the sleeves of his jacket over his knuckles.

In lieu of answering, Mr. Holmes removes a pipe from his case and takes his time to light it. After a long moment of silence, John realizes he has nothing more to say, and evidently feels no obligation to continue speaking. 

"Mrs. Hudson says you are often absent from the manor, sometimes for months at a time," John says, trying to be delicate. "Do you travel overseas often?"

"To the continent. Mostly just to London," he replies, taking a long puff from his pipe. "I find the estate dreadfully boring. It is far easier to shut it up to avoid a great deal of maintenance and spend my time in the city."

"It is quite isolating out here on the moors, isn't it?" John offers, glancing again over at Archie. Before he can say any more, Mr. Holmes extinguishes his pipe and then rises, whistling for the dog. 

"To bed, Archie. Ring for Mrs. Hudson."

John rises to his feet, as well. "Yes, we will leave you in peace. Archie, thank Mr. Holmes for your gift." The boy does so, distractedly, and then leaps up the staircase again in search of the housekeeper. John turns to Mr. Holmes, nodding to his ankle. "Take care of your ankle. Though you may find the estate boring, I suggest keeping off it for at least a couple of weeks to allow it to heal."

Mr. Holmes waves him away in dismissal, and John takes his cue. As he makes his way up the stairs, he turns back to glance at his mysterious new employer, a sense of intrigue and also uneasiness curling in his gut. Just as he goes to step out of sight, Mr. Holmes catches sight of him, and they lock eyes. After a moment, frozen, Mr. Holmes smirks and finally turns away. Before he can turn back again, John jogs up the rest of the stairs, moving quickly through the house to his rooms, blood pounding. 

* * *

 

Someone is singing. Perhaps not singing, so to speak, but a sing-song voice certainly penetrates the silence. John usually experiences a great deal of noise in his dreams, between guns, explosives, horses shrieking and soldiers crying out. But never this sort of soft, haunting singing. Getting louder...and louder...

_I will burn the hhhhhheart out of you._

John jolts up from bed, heart beating against his chest and forehead damp with sweat, to an empty room. The draft that leaks in from his slight-ajar bedroom door cools the perspiration on his body, and sends a shiver down his spine. 


	4. A Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets to know his mysterious employer better.

Despite the sudden and dramatic arrival at the estate of Mr. Holmes, life changed very little for John with his master's presence in the house. Archie was certainly no more well-behaved, and no less curious, and he absorbed almost all of John's waking hours. 

Mr. Holmes, however, they saw very little, as he spent much of his time buried in his study, taking his meals there on a tray which Mrs. Hudson often returned with, untouched. But nearly every evening, John and Archie were called upon, and they cleaned up and made their appearance for no more than an hour. Mr. Holmes would have some graphic anatomical image dog-eared in one of his many books, and he'd hand it off to Archie to go read in the corner before turning to John, motioning for him to settle on the adjacent armchair. 

They talked a great deal but about very little, as far as John could recall. Mr. Holmes had an unusual wealth of knowledge for a traditionally-educated man. He had an extraordinary mental library of chemistry and biology, but was extremely limited in his understanding of literature, art, and religion. His political awareness was nearly worse. But despite spending nearly every evening together for weeks, John knew little more of his employer than that he had an elder brother that he thought of in a rather unflattering manner. 

Yet John could not help but be enthralled. Mr. Holmes was dry, and lacked the charm and courtesy one associated with a man of his rank, he was unsettlingly intelligent and observant. He could deduce the day's activities by merely a glance at Archie's trouser legs, or explain the alcoholism in John's family by his second-hand pocket watch. He was tall, but rail-thin, and despite his lack of concern for his diet, lack of fresh air, and isolation, John never saw him looking less than neatly attired and well-groomed. He was in many ways the picture of the handsome, elegantly-featured, wealthy young man one would expect, despite his rather strange habits. 

One afternoon, when Archie had riled himself into such a fury that there was no hope of continuing his lesson, John took his young charge out into the grounds for a walk along the river's edge, the last signs of winter melting down the banks. Archie, at least, was spending his excess energy running back and forth between the shore and John, picking up whatever item or creature that caught his fancy before sprinting back to show it off to his tutor. 

For six months John had lived on the estate with Archie and now Mr. Holmes, whom John was piecing together like a puzzle as time went on. He was aloof, sometimes even cold, but Archie's affection and enthusiasm for him never wavered. He talked of no friends and only of a single brother, but barely a day went by that Mr. Holmes did not receive a letter, from London or beyond. Holmes would read each one, discarding most of them but responding to a few. When one of these letters caught his interest he was seemingly consumed by it, disappearing for hours, sometimes days, and not calling for the company of John and Archie until he was finished. 

So consumed was he by the thought of Mr. Holmes that he was not even aware of the man's presence until Archie squeals in delight at the sight of Redbeard, startling John from his wandering mind. Mr. Holmes is suddenly behind him, and John follows his gaze to where Archie wis rolling in the grass with the dog. Mrs. Hudson would never forgive the grass stains on the boy's trousers. 

"Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased," Mr. Holmes echos, and John chuckles. 

"No, certainly not. Though she's too fond of him to punish him too severely." John turns to look at Holmes. He is well-dressed as ever, but looks tired, ragged, and perhaps even more pale than usual. "Are you well?" he asks carefully. "How did your inquiry go? The...case?"

Holmes sighed. "Not as interesting as I first thought. The husband started the fire. Burned the place to the ground." 

"It seemed too great a coincidence that he was the lone survivor in such a tragedy, and with virtually no burns. None that matched the size of the blaze, at least."

Mr. Holmes is silent for a long moment. "You have an unusual interest in these crimes."

"No more unusual than yours, I'm sure," John replies, glancing over at Holmes with a raised brow. They smile. 

"No, no more than that. I'm merely surprised you have such a vivacious appetite for things most might consider morbid."

Mr. Holmes seems to be staring right through him again, and John has to force himself to keep from turning away. He refused to be intimidated by his upper-class employer, though he could not be sure it was even Holmes' intention to intimidate. Mr. Holmes may be a lot of things, but being easy to read was not one of them.

"As you so aptly deduced, I'm a military man. It takes much more to scare me off. I can handle a bit of blood and gore with the promise of a warm bed and a hot meal," John assures. 

Holmes looks his way, not a glance this time but a lingering gaze. "You have not despised your time here, then, with such a small list of wishes. They did not have warm beds or hot meals at your previous place of employment?"

John exhales, breath fogging in the cool spring air. "They did. But it lacked the blood and gore to keep my interest. Bloody noses and scraped knees were hardly in the same category."

"If you are affected by the mere mention of the police work I partake in, you would find far more interest in the actual work I do in London."

"Oh, I've no doubt. I do enjoy London, and miss the crowdedness of it. But I am sure I would only slow you down. London is vast. I can barely find my way around your estate. I count five floors from the exterior, but am sure I have not seen past the first two or three levels. If I get lost here, surely London would be worse." 

Though intended as a jest, Holmes goes suddenly silent, mood darkening before John's eyes. Unsure of what he had said to affect him in such a manner, he turns his attention back to Archie. 

"Archie! Not so close to the water's edge. If you fall in, I'll have to go in after you, and then there will be hell to pay."

The boy giggles happily and bounds away from the side of the river, the dog glad to chase him, nipping at the woollen scarf trailing behind him. 

Holmes is silent for a long moment before reaching into his inner breast pocket and removing his pipe and a small case of tobacco. "You run a tight ship, Watson, though I suppose that's to be expected, given your military history."

"I'm here to keep the boy in line," John acknowledges a bit shyly. "I would never wish to be too harsh with him, but a boy his age needs some discipline. He is a bright boy, and far too intelligent to forever indulge in vanity and whimsy."

"I've seen enough of London society to know he would fit right in should he indulge in vanity and whimsy," Holmes remarks, lighting the pipe with his tinderbox. 

"I thought you spent much of your time amongst London society. Are you guilty of the same indulgences?"

It was an impertinent question, and after living so long with a sharp tongue John should have known better than to ask such a thing. But to his surprise, Holmes actually laughs, the smoke escaping from his lungs with a burst. "Mr. Watson, I am guilty of a great many  _indulgences,_ but participating in London society is not one of them. In fact, I avoid it religiously. I cannot, however, claim to be disciplined, so I must apologize to your sense of military strictness."

"Perhaps you need a tutor, as well. I'm sure between myself and Mrs. Hudson we can teach you astronomy and to not steal biscuits from the jar."

Mr. Holmes' eyes flicker to him, his expression stoic as ever but his eyes sparkling with humour. 

"Perhaps I do."

* * *

John wakes to the smell of smoke. 

It isn't terribly unusual, as burnt gunpowder and searing flesh and hair haunt his nightmares, but upon lighting the candle beside his bed, John immediately becomes aware of the hazy atmosphere of the room. 

Fire. 

He leaps out of bed, stumbling into the corridor with baited breath. The kitchen is his first destination, but despite the presence of smoke that permeates the house, the room is calm and dark. For one long, disorienting moment, John wonders if this is all some vivid hallucination, or perhaps he's still dreaming. But the air only gets hotter and thicker, and John pushes forward, climbing the set of stairs to the west wing of the grand house. 

It's an unfamiliar corridor, but the smoke pooling on the floor under the door in the centre of the hall is no mystery. John presses the back of his hand against the wood, and sure he won't be met immediately with flames, opens the door. A wall of smoke pours over his head and spread down the hall like molasses, filling John's nose and throat. He coughs violently, throwing his arm over his face as he stumbles into the room. A four-poster bed is alight, the drapes half-incinerated already from the flames that lick at the ceiling. More worrisome still is the lone figure in the bed, unmoving. Mr. Holmes. 

In two strides he's across the room, seizing the man by the shoulders and shaking him violently. "Mr. Holmes!" he shouts. "Wake up! Holmes!" With a shallow breath and groan, Holmes stirs but does not wake, eyes rolling back into his head beneath his closed eyelids. No amount of yelling or shaking is enough to rouse him, and John steps back, unwilling to waste anymore time on the hopeless task.

With a loud curse, he turns, weighing the option of hoisting Holmes over his shoulder and carrying him to safety. A noble decision, but in the time he left and returned, the rest of the house could dissolve into flames. Instead, John seizes the burning drapes, tearing them from the posts on the bed, ignoring the smell of his own burning flesh as he crosses the room and tosses them into the fireplace. The heavy duvet he pulls from the bed to smother the flames burning the rug. 

"Mr. Watson?"

Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway, bucket of water in-hand and a frantic look on her face. 

"Throw the water in the fireplace and then open the window. Mr. Holmes has ingested the smoke, he may be suffocating." 

A fragile woman with a nerve of steel, Mrs. Hudson wastes no time following orders, emptying the bucket onto the burning drapes and moving to the window, thrusting it open to let the thick smoke escape into the cold night. She fetches a throw and begins to fan the air, glancing over as John examines Holmes, who has by now raised his head drowsily, finally roused by the commotion. 

"Is he...?"

"He's breathing and partially conscious," John confirms, fingers pressed into the man's wrist. Mrs. Hudson looks visibly relieved, and John cannot help but feel a burgeoning affection for the woman. "He'll be alright, I think, once the air clears. His pulse is quite low, however."

"It is not the air I am worried about, Mr. Watson."

He follows her gaze to the table at Holmes' bedside, which, in the fear of the flames, he had not bothered to glance at. A small, leather case, not wholly dissimilar from the one which housed Holmes' pipe and tobacco, lay open on the tabletop, a nearly-empty syringe haphazardly placed back inside. John turns back to Mrs. Hudson, whose solemn expression confirms his fears. 

He turns back to his employer, pulling his fluttering eyelids up to check his pupils, so restricted they are no more than the size of a pinprick. "Holmes, what did you take?" he demands, shaking him by the shoulders. "Holmes!"

"He'll be unresponsive until morning, Mr. Watson," Mrs. Hudson informs him quietly, setting the throw blanket back down on the armchair. "I've seen him like this before. He is quite far removed from himself, but he will be alright."

John swallows thickly, standing up and pulling the duvet from the floor. It is charred in some spots, but on the whole still of use, and John places it over Holmes' already sleeping form. "He'll wake to quite a chill tomorrow morning with the window open."

"We all will. We should open as many of the windows as possible to clear the smoke. Mr. Holmes is expecting company in the upcoming weeks, it will not do to have the place reeking of fire."

As the housekeeper makes her way out, John follows, sparing a glance back at Holmes. With a heavy feeling in the pit of his gut, John closed the door behind him, leaving Holmes to the cold air of the open window and the charred remains of the room. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The plot will follow the story line of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, with some evident and necessary changes. I was debating about putting this narrative in the first person. If anyone has any suggestions or feedback, I would love to hear it.


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